


Spinner

by sketchnurse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood Play, Consent, Dubious Morality, Grey motives, M/M, Manipulation, Not Happy, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchnurse/pseuds/sketchnurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will seduces Hannibal. It's time, and there aren't a lot of other options.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinner

**Author's Note:**

> While this is consensual sex between two adults, the circumstances under which it is performed are, to my mind, less than ideal, and certainly not characteristic of a healthy relationship.

It starts.

 

"That I'm attracted, sexually, to you as well." He stares, and pulls all of Hannibal's perversion and sickness and bleeds it into the part of his mind that gets his heart beating faster. He lets the fabric of his clothing settle on his skin.

 

He can see the flare that rises in Hannibal's eyes, the sick shock of arousal. He presses his thighs together and breathes, letting his muscles and his blood and his body coil, rise, tighten.

 

Hannibal gets up. He doesn't look at Will. He walks towards the wine, and Will hears him pour a glass, just one, before he knows that the time has come.

 

"You think I intend to bind you to me with sexual acts. More intimacy."

 

He is behind Will's chair, suddenly lower and close enough to touch. His voice comes from behind Will's ear.

 

"But if I were..." It is the same way he had said it before, teasing what they knew to be true.  "You think tonight is truly when we start?" One of his hands comes to rest on Will's bicep; the other cups his jaw. Will keeps his eyes wide open, anchoring himself in the still landscape ahead of him. He may as well stay stable as long as he can. He is under no illusions that Hannibal will not take him completely apart.

 

A finger comes to rest on his lower lip, slowly tracing the line of his mouth before slipping in to run across his teeth. He nips the finger, allows its slide into his mouth, and he scrapes it and flicks his tongue against its tip and sucks until he feels the flesh move under the suction.

 

Hannibal breathes deeply, but quietly.  All Will knows is his two hands, the rest hidden behind fine upholstery.

 

Another finger enters, and another. He sucks on them until he knows Hannibal's breathing is not entirely easy, before threading his tongue through them. He lets them slide passively from his open mouth, and he still looks straight ahead. The potted herbs cast strange shadows in the evening sunlight.

 

Hannibal glides his body toward him, moving closer in smooth pivots that make him seem inhuman. He is the Devil, Will remembers, he is smoke. And Hannibal is under his chin, mouth attached until pressure spills blood under his skin.

 

He imagines all of Hannibal's human self kissing him, while the monster stands to the side, blank and hungry in its observation. He wonders where his own monster would be. He tries not to, and focuses on the blunt tool that is the suction Hannibal employs, and he whimpers.

 

"Is this what you were expecting, dear Will?" He bends over and licks with a sharp tongue until he is lapping at the very bottom of Will's lower lip. Will releases some of his careful control, and lets himself shudder. It is good, arousing, more stimulating than his own had been. More genuine than his communion with Margot Verger, bless her agency and her anger.

 

"Kiss me." Will lets himself demand. He keeps his voice soft, but some edge is let into it. Hannibal likes that. Hannibal likes that, if the insistent nature of his teeth is to be believed.

 

"And if I told you the exquisiteness of your mouth may overwhelm me?"

 

"You haven't tasted it yet."

 

"So I haven’t." Hannibal gently wrenches Will’s head so that he can probe him deeper. The first entrance is a dirty and graceful stab from his tongue. Will sucks it into his mouth, and in part of his mind, is proud of the tiny control Hannibal loses at his looseness. The tongue is joined by teeth and a mouth that opens and closes in perfect tandem with his own. Will has never been kissed like this, and will be by no one, ever again.

 

It’s gorgeous, a nice reward for all of his hard work in deceiving his devilish friend. If this is only the taster, the main dish will be even more-- Hannibal's food, the iron taste of the rare cutlets, rivulets of juices coursing down the planes of flesh...

 

He channels his thought into his body. He takes his disgust and transforms it again into sexual energy, which he releases slowly as Hannibal escalates their kisses far beyond the point of propriety.

 

He pulls back, and for a glorious moment sees Hannibal's true face, his mouth very lightly coloured with the blood he had bitten from Will's throat. It’s exhilarating. 

 

"You're good at this." His voice is a growl and it begs something more from the man whose hand has started to close around his throat.

 

“Yes.” Hannibal replies, because of course he doe, and starts to press bruisingly against Will’s jaw. The noises Will makes are in pain, but it is deliberate; he hadn’t needed to release them. In doing so, he sounds desperate, enough to convince Hannibal, and himself.

 

Will turns himself around to press his body against Hannibal’s. He does so, and reaches his hands down to Hannibal’s hips, taking in full hands of fine fabric and well-muscled bone. His skin feels hot at their points of contact, at his lips and at his neck and now close to the centre of the beast. He starts to notice that he doesn’t feel as terrified as he had before, and that causes another kind of fear to arise within him, bringing cold to the parts that weren’t burning.

 

Hannibal lets all of this happen passively until suddenly he doesn’t. He looms over Will and takes fast possession of his mouth, impossibly more so than before, kissing not only fastly and filthily, but with far too many teeth. Will feels as though the very breath is being stolen from him, as though if he wanted to, Hannibal could suffocate him like that. It’s overwhelming and strange, more violent than any coupling Will had ever experienced, and yet there is _tenderness_ to it. Too much tenderness; Will feels heat, angry heat, start to build up from his toes, at the _love_ Hannibal is pouring into his assault. It is obscene.

 

He turns that disgust into useful energy, too.

 

The looming turns into pressure, and Will finds himself trapped between a kitchen countertop and Hannibal, who continues to be relentless in his attentions. The feeling of their erections, trapped as well, though in fabric, is exquisite. Knowing that he has reduced Hannibal to base and loving instincts flared Will’s pride. It is the same pride that came from using his gifts for good things, as bad as they sometimes made him feel.

 

His mind seems to want to compete with the conflicting sensations that Hannibal is giving him. He feels full of at least twenty separate emotions and instincts, but he continues on with what he needs: desire, sexuality, hedonism. Hannibal’s suit material is soft in his hands, and he delights in bunching it up and wrinkling it; he suspects Hannibal knows this full well, and is gaining pleasure from indulging him. Their indulgences and little power plays loop around each other, through each other, so many layers that there is no dominant party, just submission for the sake of amusement and curiousity, and violent touches for the same reason.

 

“Perhaps you would like to relocate.” Hannimal murmurs, his tongue making the words delicate, a perverse contrast to the touches they had been producing before the interruption. Will only laughs, and catches his bottom lip between his own sharp teeth,  says into his mouth, “No. Here.”

 

“Very well,” And another switch is flipped, and Will’s clothes are being removed, skillfully but not delicately, and his underwear catch on his balls as they are pulled off, and he lets out the yell that forms. Hannibal only touches him more forcefully, but Will is determined to give back because he can see, so clearly, that Hannibal needs him to. He thinks of himself like Alana, and, _oh,_ Alana, but he will provide for and nurture the creature that he has captured at last. So he bites.

 

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” he tells Hannibal, and he is grinning, now, feral and free and frightening. His eyes point downward at Hannibal’s chest, where a mark is going to be forming in the next minutes, and he is hungry for more of it, for more scratches he can leave on the meticulous and amoral surface of his friend.

 

“Give me another,” Hannibal breathes, and yes, that is it, that is what will get him through the rest of the night, the cracks in his ridiculous armour that he will only be letting Will through, the signs of his weakness and his hubris that will lead, eventually, by Will or by someone stronger, to his downfall. He will be caught, Will knows, and he sinks his teeth again into the demon’s flesh and lets a little blood trickle down. Hannibal gives him the most delicious sigh. The blood bleeds through the white shirt Hannibal is still wearing, but Hannibal must know how to get rid of bloodstains, he must know how to erase and bleach and replace as he needs… he must have worn shirts just so before, covered in whatever people let out when he killed them. He killed them. He could kill Will, and maybe he will, but not now.

 

“You’re delicious.” Will says, because he knows that Hannibal will be at a loss for words, he knows him so well by now, and it is true. He sucks a little more from the shirt and starts to unbutton it, and Hannibal lets him, truly passive for the time being. Will knows it won’t be for long, that Hannibal will finish processing his friend’s transformation and will start to feed on it, but it is lovely for the moment, to see such a creature reduced through his skin.

 

Soon Hannibal has lost his shirt and has his trousers hanging off his hips. Will traces the line of the bones, pressing hard where the skin is thinnest, and Hannibal gives him more breathy sighs. His eyes are closed, and Will knows that he could try to kill him now, that his guard is so down that he might succeed, but it is not enough, not yet. Not until Hannibal sees him playing and giving and devoting will he really leave his true self alone with Will Graham, and that is the only moment that he would ever be able to strike and definitely succeed. He is still holding out hope for evidence, the ability to bring Hannibal to justice at a hand other than his own, but he is preparing for otherwise.

 

He slides his hands beneath the trousers to touch Hannibal where he is perhaps most vulnerable, and Hannibal lets him, even arches his head back. His throat is as soft and pampered and muscled as the rest of him, and Will darts forward to bite it, too, and Hannibal does not protest, presumably resigning himself to scarves and turtlenecks until it heals. Will doesn’t bite enough to break the skin, but he imagines himself doing so, finding the carotid and tearing it open with his incisors, the arterial blood spraying everywhere in predictable pattern. He chews Hannibal’s neck where he knows it runs, and he can feel Hannibal’s approval, Hannibal’s knowledge of his thoughts.

 

“Maybe we _should_ move this to your bedroom.” Will says, fully aware of the blood that is now drying on his cheek, and Hannibal whispers, harshly, “No. No, here.”

 

Will unbuttons Hannibal’s trousers and strokes a hand down the hard length encased in luxuriant silk, feeling, perhaps truly for the first time, the incredible power that is contained within their encounter. Hannibal is vulnerable, at least in part, beneath him, and he drinks that it, and changes it, directs it to his own groin and it inflates him until he aches. Hannibal is starting to pant slightly, and he ceases his stroking, backs off completely until Hannibal opens his eyes, and looks at him. He _looks_ at him, but there is nothing good left on Will’s surface to betray him.

 

Hannibal drags a finger down his throat, across his chest and brings it up to his lips, tasting the slightly congealed blood. He licks the digit, sucks at it much as Will had done at the very beginning, and Will challenges himself to remain still, to not react to the display.

 

“Will…” Hannibal says, and his lips are red, some of it left from the marks he has left on Will, some of it from the blood in and out of his body, “Will.”

 

“That’s my name.” And he is sliding the silk undergarments down Hannibal’s legs until they are both naked. Hannibal’s body is concentrated in its musculature, but there is some softness at his stomach, a little on the inside of his thighs. Middling age. Will is no great specimen, but there is little fat on him, as often as he remembers to eat. But he knows Hannibal’s body is far more dangerous; he reacts to the thought with more conversion, more electric shocks directed from his spine and downward.

 

“Would you like me against the counter, or on the floor?” Hannibal asks, apparently trying his best to sound aloof, like the words wouldn’t send Will’s mind spiraling, because of course Will had thought _he_ would, as the sinuous seducer, be the one to be taken. But he gathers himself quickly, not too quickly, but quickly, and replies, “How about against the wall?”

 

“I bow to your judgment.” Hannibal says, voice strained because his cock is in Will’s hands, and Will is not being kind. Will does, however, let himself be pulled away from the kitchen table and toward the empty space of a wall not far from the door. Hannibal is against it, and he finds the sight enticing, not just because there is a man hard and leaking and willing to please him, but because he has remained in control of himself, judged the amount of freedom to give to his darker side, and thus far been triumphant.

 

There is still more, though. Hannibal hints at this, unashamedly stroking his own perineum, looking at Will who is still panting and trying to figure out what to do with this new incarnation of perhaps the most dangerous man in Baltimore.

 

“Would you like me like this?” Will can only nod, and Hannibal tilts his head to a drawer in a cabinet in the kitchen, says, “You will find lubricant in the third drawer from the top.”, and continues to touch himself. Will suddenly feels the layers condense and collapse, and Hannibal is in control, truly, with his wanton invitations and the hints of dominance that Will can take. From the bottom he will be at the top, and if Will had anticipated this at all his imaginings are nothing like what it is, Hannibal begging for his attention with the controlled lust in his eyes, the slips of breath that accompany his self-flagellations. There is absolutely nothing for it than obeying the non-command, and finding the lube where Hannibal had said it would be. He doesn’t think about why it had been in a kitchen drawer, but he does. He doesn’t think about Alana in his place, false phallus hanging off her pubic mound, and Hannibal equally submissive, tricking her. But he does.

 

He lets Hannibal prepare himself while he watches, gaze intent on the careful and expert movements that open up the man who has slapped himself against a wall for his pleasure. Will’s eyes greedily take in the sight, and he makes contact with Hannibal’s stare as often as he feels safe doing. Each time he does so, it is a little more dangerous, and that is thrilling, so thrilling that he is grateful for Hannibal’s apparent ease with his own body, for scarcely a minute has passed before Hannibal is pulling him close, letting their cocks touch, fisting them together and it is Will’s turn to gasp at the sensation. But Hannibal does not take any advantage of this to turn the tables. Instead, he matches Will’s noises with his own, until the pull of lust is too much for Will to resist any longer. All energy, positive and negative, has been given to his groin, and now Will readies himself to enter the dragon.

 

“Is this what you were thinking of, my lovely boy?” Hannibal asks, and Will does not have enough energy to devote to being annoyed at the diminutive. Instead, he fixes Hannibal with a stare that contains everything dark that he can find in the moment, and Hannibal’s eyes widen, his cock twitches, his grip around his forearms tighten. “I must say,” Hannibal says, as Will laves his neck, only teasing with his cock instead of putting it where they both want it, “This is exactly how I imagined you.”

 

“How often did you imagine me?” Will takes that moment to align himself and suddenly he is inside, Hannibal’s face transforms again, utter rapture, this time, and Will wonders if this would be good enough, if this is the moment to take, to finally get rid of Lecter. But he doesn’t want to think about death while fucking, not with the strange things that rattle around his head. Maybe Hannibal knows this. Maybe one day, if he is ready, he will kill Hannibal like this, and Hannibal will not care.

 

“You have long captured my imagination, Will.” Hannibal says, as Will begins his first thrusts. He lets out the right gasps, not insincere but breathy enough to be arousing, and Will finds himself dangerously close to losing himself in sensation. But he will not, just in case this had really been Hannibal’s plan, that the roles were to be reversed. He retains some thread of reality as he thrusts into Hannibal, grinds into him, really, hard and fast and viciously. He can hear Hannibal’s head tapping the wall behind him, but of course he doesn’t care. Maybe he should, but he wants to cause this man pain, and this man wants it back.

 

“That is—absolutely perfect, Will. Could I—oh—trouble you to move perhaps three centimetres down?”

 

“I thought I was being perfect.” Will nevertheless obliges, and it is apparent that he has hit upon an angle where the prostate is being taken best advantage of, for Hannibal abandons all pretense of paying attention and simply lets himself be taken. At this point, it doesn’t occur to Will that killing Hannibal would be better practice than violently thrusting his cock into him until the screams stop. His mind is entirely occupied by the sensation of letting himself go fully, and it is marvelous, perhaps the best he has ever had, and the notion of that is finally enough to push him past the edge he had so carefully walked, and he comes into Hannibal just as he feels Hannibal clench around him, and come land on the soft skin of his stomach.

 

He leans against Hannibal for long moments while they both catch their breath. Naturally, Hannibal is the first to return to some semblance of normal, though there are limits to how composed one can be while standing fully nude against a wall, covered in semen. Will doesn’t wait for his heart to stop racing before he leans forward and kisses Hannibal, just a hint of their former dirtiness and all of the tenderness that Hannibal had shown, and he thinks this may be the most difficult act of all. But he still does it all too easily. Hannibal returns it, slipping his tongue in, and suddenly it is wild and dirty once again, and Will wishes that they could repeat themselves, on and on so that he would never have to deal with the bodies that Hannibal has never laid to rest.

 

“I am glad you finally took it upon yourself to address the sexual tension between us.” Hannibal says, moving his fingers through Will’s chest, where it is still damp and sticky. Will’s breath shudders, and he knows they will do this again, maybe even as often as possible until the levee breaks and Hannibal discovers the truth that for all his seductiveness he will never be able to destroy.

 

“There wasn’t really any point in putting it off,” Will said, voice gentle, fingers tracing Hannibal’s lips. Hannibal did nothing, simply letting the fingers glide over him until they moved downward to touch the bitemarks that were still read and covered in crusted blood. “I can tell you enjoyed yourself.”

 

“An understatement, if I have ever heard one.” Hannibal’s fingers, apparently tiring of Will’s stomach, grasp his hips and start to stroke the skin there. It is tender, again, and Will starts to wonder when the encounter will end so he can return to Wolf Trap and let his dogs carry away the scent of Hannibal while he rolls around in his own bed. He suspects it won’t be soon.

 

“You will stay the night.” Hannibal says, and Will notes with alarm that the evening has turned dark, and the stars above Baltimore have begun their futile struggle to shine through the haze of people. He realizes that refusing would be equally futile, and he sags against Hannibal, drawing up the rest of his resolve and wondering where he will get the energy to snuggle in the night and draw adoring patterns on Hannibal’s back.

 

“Of course.” he says, and lets the darkness wash over him, a cloak that will carry him to the end. He hopes it will be enough. By the sincerity and _love_ in Hannibal’s eyes, it will be.


End file.
